


Play Me A Classic; We’ll Dance All Day

by Ellie5192



Category: Major Crimes (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family Fluff, Kisses, and great jazz classics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 06:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3799588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellie5192/pseuds/Ellie5192
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Standing in her kitchen cooking while singing along to Peggy Lee is possibly his third favourite Sharon Raydor thing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play Me A Classic; We’ll Dance All Day

**Author's Note:**

> A little bit of Shandy (featuring family fluff) for Julia, with whom I had a very fluffy conversation that included the pyjamas and the featured music, and then she wanted the wardrobe ending too, after we decided to slightly amend those floor plans. So fussy, Jules, so demanding! And also Kate Beckett’s ‘all the songs make sense’ made an appearance, because it’s true.  
> Set a couple of years in the future. Shandy. One-shot. Rated for heated kisses. As always: read, review, enjoy.

**Play Me A Classic; We’ll Dance All Day**

It’s rare for him to wake to an empty room, especially when it’s Saturday and they haven’t been called out. Rarer still, she didn’t wake him; her usual morning routine involves running showers and clipping heals. But the unmistakeable smell of bacon in the air and soft music from the living room confirm what he already knows; Rusty is home from college this weekend, and Sharon intends to spoil him rotten. The luck of the youngest child, he thinks, as he scrubs a hand over his face and rolls himself upright.

Andy tries not to feel jealous. After all, he gets Sharon every day of the week; it’s only fair he share her precious time with her own son.

He groans and stretches, and then picks up his plain white tee shirt from her floor. He runs too hot at night to stand wearing it to bed; she loves the heavier duvet, and so he must live with just boxer shorts and her inevitable snuggling. But it’s no burden; truly, he doesn’t mind that much.

The last strains of a Patsy Cline song flit through the stereo just as he opens the bedroom door and steps out. He looks down the corridor to confirm that Rusty has not yet risen. He won’t be far away, if the smell of bacon persists, but his flight from San Francisco got in late last night and he is understandably tired.

Andy rounds the corner with a smile. He can hear her singing along softly to the music, and as she comes into sight he grins; the new song is erotically familiar, part of some classic mix she likes to play sometimes – Fever is the name of it, he remembers. He likes this song, for obvious reasons. They’ve danced to it now and then. And other things.

Her hips sway to the low drum beat as she hums along. The silk of her pyjamas – soft baby blue, a shirt and pants combo that almost look like a suit, but for the bedroom material and black cuff trim – accentuate her figure underneath as she moves. He watches her for a long moment. The timber of her voice runs right through him in the best possible way. She has her back to him as she mixes what he can only assume is pancake batter. The bacon is resting in the warm pan, the stove turned off. 

Standing in her kitchen cooking while singing along to Peggy Lee is possibly his third favourite Sharon Raydor thing. And with that thought he finally continues forward, his bare feet slapping lightly on the boards and warning her of his presence. He reaches her and steps right up against her back. She smiles, still singing, as he reaches his hand up and moves her hair aside with one finger. Her voice hitches a little as his lips lightly touch her neck, just above the collar of her pyjama top. His hands land on her hips, fingers teasing the soft material; he loves these pyjamas, mostly because of the number of times he’s divested her of them.

“When he put his arms around her” he whispers in her ear, not daring to actually sing along when her voice is so lovely and husky with lingering sleep. He gets great satisfaction from her grin, and the way she presses just a little closer to him in response. If it weren’t for the fact she was half way through cooking and Rusty could wake at any moment, he would probably have dragged her back to the bedroom for that alone. As it is, he contents himself with wrapping his arms lightly across her hips and watching over her shoulder as she mixes the batter a little more and then sets it aside.

That done, she turns in his arms and places her own hands around his shoulders, smiling at him as she lightly ruffles his hair. It must look horrendous after last night; it’s been a long time since they had to be quiet. In the background the song changes again – Etta James, he thinks, but can’t be sure. Something equally classic though. He doesn’t mind it.

“Good morning” she says, pursing her lips.

“Good morning” he replies, smiling at her, because sometimes he finds her utterly ridiculous and it’s the most wonderful thing in the world. “Sleep well?”

She doesn’t answer him; just gives him a coy look and a smile that holds a lot of secrets.

“Pancakes _and_ bacon?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It has been three months since my son was home and I fully intend to dote”

He just laughs, and leans in for a kiss, which she happily obliges, humming softly as his touch turns tender. They stay that way for some time, kissing softly without pushing further. He forgets sometimes, after so many years of playing the scene, how lovely it can be just to make out for a while without any expectations. Sharon is so tactile and pliant in a lover’s arms; it makes kissing her an experience he longs to replicate over and over. She hums a little, her hands running across his shoulders and her fingers kneading the back of his neck. It sends a shiver right through him, and he lightly bites her lip in retaliation; she shouldn’t start things she can’t finish.

The song is well and truly over when they finally part. He takes a deep, steadying breath as she lays her head against his chest and snuggles against him. He loves this side of her; if someone had told him the wicked witch likes to cuddle he would have laughed. Now, he can’t imagine mornings without this. He pulls her hair to one side again, cupping his hand against the back of her neck, and rests his cheek against the top of her head. Without heels she is small enough that he can practically fold himself around her. It’s very cute, not that he would ever say that to her face.

“I like my family coming home” she says, pulling back enough to look him in the eye.

“I know” he says, and pecks her lips again for good measure. “You miss your boy”

“Palo Alto is so far away” she whines dramatically, drawing out her syllables and slumping in his arms, outright pouting when he doesn’t show the requisite amount of sympathy. He grins and shakes his head at her antics.

A voice pipes up from behind them, “Did you make this much fuss when your oldest son moved there too?”

They turn but don’t part, watching as Rusty shuffles slowly into the kitchen and folds himself onto a stool at the bench. He rubs his eyes like a little boy and then looks at them properly, taking in the bacon and the promising pancake batter, and the fresh cut strawberries in a bowl on the counter. His eyes widen in appreciation.  

“For your information” starts Sharon, taking one hand from around Andy’s shoulders so she can throw it dramatically on her hip. “I insisted on travelling up to Palo Alto and staying for a _week_ to see that Ricky settled in okay. Consider yourself lucky”

“You came with me, too”

“Yes, but only for two nights, and I stayed in a hotel for one of them”

“Because our place doesn’t have a spare room, and you didn’t like Ricky sleeping on the couch”

She just shakes her head at him and waves her hand in dismissal, turning away to get the pancake pan ready. Andy gives him a look – something between congratulations and _watch out on that war path kid_ – and Rusty just rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

He had been worried, when he decided to join Ricky up north to complete his studies. Sharon and he had a complicated relationship – one part adult, another part emotionally co-dependant. They had lived for so long with threat and danger, that when their safety was finally and completely assured it took a long time to unlearn that behaviour. Hence, his first foray out of home was into a shared rental with his own brother; out of home, perhaps, but not out of reach.

He and Ricky are doing well, all things considered. With Ricky’s business keeping him busy and Rusty at school full time, they don’t get too sick of each other’s company. And it’s nice to actually form a proper relationship with his brother. They hadn’t grown up together, so this is their chance to be comfortable with each other and learn their habits; to gain the familiarity they didn’t get from a childhood spent together. And it makes it easier for Emily to see them both, only having to make one trip instead of two. So far he really likes living out of home, which is a surprise unto itself.

“So kid, how’s school?” asks Andy, taking a strawberry from the bowl. Sharon clicks at him and points her finger with a look, but he just gives her a look right back and steps out of her spatula’s reach. Their antics are dutifully ignored by Rusty, who just groans and rolls his eyes in answer to the question.

 “School’s busy – a lot harder than my Associates degree, that’s for sure. And with doing this work at the centre, I feel like I don’t have any free time”

“You knew that would be the case, taking on weekend work” says Sharon from the stove. The first two pancakes get flipped in the pan, almost done. The boys sniff in appreciation.

“I know, I know. I just didn’t expect it to… I don’t know… be this hard? It’s hard”

“I think it’s admirable, what you’re doing” says Andy, giving him a genuine look and passing him a strawberry while Sharon isn’t looking. “Not everyone could take your experiences and use them for positive work in that field. You’ve got a lot of guts, kid, I mean that”

“Well, you know, I figured I’d end up in some kind of social work position. And it’s not like I’m working at a crisis centre or something; it’s just a community program. But some of these kids that come in...”

Rusty shakes his head and raises his brow, indicating just how intense the work is, and how troubled some of the youth are that he works with. They aren’t street children – at least not yet – but youth from troubled homes, growing up with mothers like his and stepfathers who beat them, depressed and anxious and alone; it’s painfully familiar for Rusty, whose own experiences with counselling and mentoring convinced him he has what it takes to help other kids. His studies at Palo Alto University focus on social programs instead of traditional clinical psychology. He wants to get his feet on the ground, and then maybe – if he can – be in a position to help write the policies themselves. He wants to be on the frontline of fixing a system that he knows first-hand is broken.

More than ever Rusty is aware just how lucky he is that Sharon found him, and loved him, and wanted to keep him forever. It makes coming home so much sweeter, even just for the weekend.

“Well you know kid, if you ever want to come home, there’s always a bed for you” says Andy. The room down the hall is still unofficially his, though it is used more as a guest room for all of them now. Even Andy’s grandkids have stayed in there a couple of times, on the nights they’ve had a sleepover.

“I know. No, it’s not that – I love San Francisco, it’s great. And living with Ricky has been… easier than I expected”

From her place at the stove Sharon tries and fails to muffle a snort.

“It’s just different” he continues, ignoring her. “I’ve never lived outside of L.A before”

“Well, you know the option is always there” says Andy, dropping it for now. Rusty nods his thanks. They had discussed this before he left, that he would always have a roof over his head. And if need be, Andy retained his old apartment as a rental; if Rusty really needed to move back to the city, he could always move there until he got back on his feet. In any case, he would never be left out in the cold. It’s a security that he never had before, and it always makes him equal parts thankful and confused. Where did these people come from? Why him?

Sharon scoops the two pancakes and most of the slivers of bacon onto a plate and hands it to Rusty, pointing at the bowl of strawberries so that Andy moves them closer while she grabs the syrup and cutlery. Rusty practically smacks his lips; he doesn’t eat this kind of breakfast back home.

“Can I ask, just how far is this _getting spoilt_ thing gonna go?” asks Rusty, as he decorates his pancakes with all the toppings.

Sharon rolls her eyes and gives a wry grin. “Yes, you can eat it on the couch. But if you spill so much as one drop of that syrup, so help me…”

“I know, I know”

She smiles at him as he hastily collects his plate and goes, and in just a moment they can hear the television being turned on and the stereo muted. Andy smiles at her as she starts on two more pancakes at the stove, humming along to the song that just got cut short, uncaring that the music is gone.

Andy retakes his place behind her, his hands resting lightly on her hips again. He rests his lips against the back of her head, his nose resting in her hair, and enjoys the freedom to be this close with her. The normal stuff always takes him by surprise; so much of their early relationship was built on fancy outings and nice family dinners. Even the occasional baseball game had an air of formality about it; the excuses for why he invited her and her inability to completely relax around a subordinate, no matter how close they were. It wasn’t until this started – properly moved from casual dating to a full-fledged relationship – that he began to appreciate the intimacy of these simple moments. When he moved in, his eyes were opened to her full world; every day, every night. He sees a side to Sharon Raydor that very few people ever have the privilege of witnessing.

He thinks it’s amazing, and he tells her that sometimes. She just laughs, of course. It’s not like she sets out to impress him in her daily routines, she just does her thing and lives her life and he follows her around like the fool he is. But then, he heard that all those sappy love songs start to make sense when you fall in love. Maybe it’s that.

“How many pancakes do you want?” she asks, flipping the two in the pan.

“Seven” he says. She just snorts again.

“Oh yes, your doctor will love me” she mutters. His heart has been fine recently, but then it helps that she eats so healthy, and that he is obliged to eat the same way now that they live together.

“Three” he amends, conceding.

She scoops the two out and onto a fresh plate and, after stealing a small bite from one, gives him the two remaining slivers of bacon as a special treat. “Start with these, then I’ll think about it” she says.

He nudges the back of her head with his nose, but takes the plate and loads it up with toppings. She pours another two pancakes to cook, and he knows he won; she only eats one, after all. Unless Rusty claims the other before he can. He pats his stomach. Maybe it’s best to just have the two. Save room for lunch.

“What’s the plan for today?” he asks around a mouthful, holding the plate in front of him as he leans back against the bench, one foot hooked casually in front of the other. He is the picture of domesticity. She smiles.

“I don’t have one”

“You? Don’t have a plan?” he mocks. He practically clutches his pearls in shock. She pokes her tongue out at him. He sidles up next to her and, mindful that his fingers aren’t covered in food, gently tugs the hem of her pyjama top. He tries to peak down the front of it, but the angle isn’t right. She nudges him away with her elbow.

“Behave” she hisses, jerking her head in the direction of the living room. He laughs at her, but steps away and continues eating. It’s nothing Rusty isn’t used to, but he still gets a little awkward around their displays of affection. Andy thinks it’s funny.

“I get a kick out of you, baby” he croons, winking saucily when she glances at him. She rolls her eyes, but smiles all the same, a blush rising on her cheeks. His look turns positively smug, and she hits him with the backs of her fingers. There’s no bite in it, though; she loves it.

She finishes making the pancakes – Rusty ends up coming back into the kitchen and claiming the spare one just as they finish cooking – and they all proceed to the living room to enjoy the rare treat of eating on the couch. Rusty has some movie on that he no doubt recorded before he left, but she doesn’t mind. She slumps into his side, hugging him, their plates all stacked up neatly on the coffee table and her feet in Andy’s lap on the other end of the couch. Rusty gives him a look over her head, but Andy just shrugs; he can’t control how clingy she is over her kids, any more than he can control the weather.

It’s another hour before they finally decide to get motivated. Rusty claims the shower – something about superior water pressure – and Andy takes the plates to the dishwasher. With that done, he goes in search of Sharon and finds her perusing her wardrobe, her lips pursed in concentration. It’s no easy task to find anything – the damn thing stretches the full length of her bedroom wall, housing not only all their clothes, but also her impressive shoe and handbag collection, and a fair few belts and accessories. The doors reveal only half – the other half is walk-in, and is frankly a bottomless pit. It was a full day’s work to get all of his fancy suits in there with hers, but they managed somehow.

He steps up behind her and swoops his head sideways to kiss her cheek, wrapping his arms around her stomach. She laughs at him.

“Andy” she admonishes.

“I’d say we have a good twenty minutes before the kid is out of there” he whispers in her ear.

She huffs at him in disbelief, but he doesn’t give her much chance to object; he spins her and takes her face in his hands, kissing her fiercely. She hums at him, her eyes closed, her hands landing on his hips. Without thinking, he backs her into the wardrobe, until they back right into the long racks of her work suits, hung neatly in a vague colour order.

She pushes him away, but only so they can move into the enclosed half of the wardrobe, hidden from the main room, on the off chance Rusty comes looking for them. She pulls him back against her, her back against the wall, her arms around him again.

“Twenty minutes, you say?” she says, her voice low and raspy. He groans at her. “Don’t you think we’re a little old to be necking against a wall? In my wardrobe, no less?”

“Who’s old?” he replies, and with that he presses her firmly against the wall, one of her legs rising a little to wrap around the back of his calf. He kisses her hard, and runs one hand from her hip, to her stomach, and then up to cup her breast, the silk of her pyjamas the only barrier. She moans at him, her nails digging into his lower back in appreciation.

“Certainly not you” she replies. He’s not yet hard against her – their very early morning activities took care of that before they went back to sleep again – but with enough enthusiasm and determination she knows he could be. Just not in the twenty minutes they’ve got, which is unfortunate, she thinks, because if they were thirty years younger she would absolutely have him up against this wall.

Still, making out is nice enough. And there is always tonight for all the rest.

“Dancing cheek to cheek” he says, kissing along her neck. She laughs at him, a little breathless.

“You can’t just quote Ella Fitzgerald songs to get in my pants” she says, but of course, he thinks that might be a lie; look at them now, he’s doing just fine and she isn’t complaining. He directs his focus back to her, his arms going around her and his hands cupping her bum, flexing against the material again. It’s truly mesmerising. She reaches up and pulls him back into a kiss, lighter and softer than that last, but still passionate. It’s a little heady, the enclosed space adding to the effect. She had no idea her wardrobe would serve this function when she bought the place, but it’s amusing to her that it is.

“What if I learn some Frank Sinatra? Will that work?”

She giggles at him, kissing him again, her hand resting at the hair at the back of his neck. “Maybe”

“Because the lady is a tramp?” he says with a cocky grin. She pulls a face and lightly slaps his chest in admonishment. He laughs at her; he deliberately set that one up, just to tease her.

“Stop it, or I’m leaving” she says without malice.

He nudges her cheek with his nose, and then kisses her again with his hand threaded through her hair, wrapping his other arm a little tighter around her. “Not yet” he says, and continues his slow and steady approach, setting himself a personal challenge to get her to hum again, at just the right timbre.

A couple of minutes later, she does. He smiles against her lips.

They hear the water stop running and pull apart slowly. He runs his fingers through her hair, this time to straighten it, and dutifully steps away from her so they can get decent. He watches her, still leaning against the wall, her breathing short and her cheeks flushed bright pink, eyes a little glazed. This right here is his second favourite Sharon Raydor. That’s two in one morning; by tonight maybe he’ll see his most favourite, and hit the trifecta.

“You are a very bad man” she says, still breathless, eyeballing him with a look.

“You love it” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

She smiles, her face softening, and pushes herself off the wall and back into him, hooking one finger in the neck of his teeshirt and pulling him down for a light little kiss. “Yes I do” she says, tender and sweet, looking up at him in a way that makes him question his sanity. Why did he go so long without this? What is wrong with him?

He smiles back at her, runs his hands up then down her sides, and steps back. “I suggest the red sweater” he says with a grin. “Just because”

She smirks at him; she knows exactly why he likes that red sweater.

“I’m taking next shower” he says, backing out of the wardrobe. “So Rusty and I can watch TV while you take twenty years to get ready”

She rolls her eyes at him and huffs. “I won’t take twenty years, I’m not even going to wash my hair” she says, but there’s no point arguing; he’s already out the door with a laugh and a spring in his step. Incorrigible man, she thinks, but she can’t stop smiling.

She turns back to her clothes and without too much contemplation picks out the red sweater. She’ll wear it because she wants to, and not at all because he asked. Or at least, that’s what she tells herself as she finds some jeans to match.

He makes her smile so often. If a silly sweater does the same for him, so be it.

“Nice work if you can get it” she sings softly to herself with a smile, thinking of that day they strolled along Venice Beach, holding hands in the sun.

“And you can get it if you try”


End file.
